Closed Doors

How many times does it happen?
While walking through the corridors,
Our own winding lanes, or the trodden ways
A room rests somewhere,
Obvious, yet obscure.
No signs on the knobs to declare,
Yet the closed doors make it obvious,
Obvious, yet obscure.
They want to remain shut.
But do we want to go in?
Do we wait for them to decide,
To light up the within?
Or does the within light outside?
Which side do we stand on?
Outside the door?
Or the inside of the other side?
Nervously we reach out,
Then pull away with a shudder,
We don’t want to know.
We don’t want to know the obvious,
Obvious, yet obscure.

Thinking...

A lone hour, a sole hour
Looking into the emptiness of the Creation,
Is it there, is it really there
Or is it just an illusion, all this?
Waking thoughts and silent dreams
Ambitions and destinations,
Like fork in the road,
Run parallel, never meeting;
Do they every converge?
When The Calling calls, the clock opposes
-biological, logical, all explanations.
Do we ever answer?
Is it an illusion, all this?
Some fascinated ideals established,
Always elusive?
Questions and more questions,
Time answers some, others pile on.
Yet we live, we move on,
Or do we really?
Is it an illusion, all this?

To BT

If life is a journey,
I want you to be my companion.
If life is a game,
I want you to be my team.
If it is a lesson,
I want you to be my ink, my partner, my teacher.
If life goes on,
I want you to stand by.
If there's another life,
I want you to return with me...

Seventeen Missed Calls

The house of full of smells; of pickles, saffron, spicy curries, fresh marigolds, henna, raw turmeric… Everyone is dressed well and bustling about, busy with their own things, Everyone is in a hurry. The only person who isn’t dressed well, or bustling, or busy or in a hurry or even interested is supposedly the most important person of the event.
She cannot move, there she is, sitting near the window, an orange-ish lazy afternoon highlights the browns of her hair. The mehendi-wali keeps doing her job, carefully creating intriguing and delicate designs on her unassuming hand, the other one rests at the window sill as if heavy with the dark brown intricate, pretty snakes which are now dry. She keeps staring outside the window without registering, when a sparrow flies out of nowhere on a branch, holding a twig.
Every now and then her mom or one of her aunts keep coming to her and asking her if she needed anything. She denies all the time. They keep kissing her cheek; and when that happens she shuts her eyes tight and an eyebrow goes up. But when she faces them, she smiles and turns her face towards the window again. The sparrow has gathered enough twigs and kindling, yet she keeps at it. Flying away again after arranging the newest twig on the clump, only to return with a blade of dry grass or weed.
There is a plate full of delicious sweets, munches and glass of lemonade besides her. To her right is her cell phone, it says “17 Missed Calls”. She knows who they are from. The screen comes to life every now and then flashing only one name. Its weird, she thinks, the name which never failed to bring a smile to her face only drops a small lump in her stomach and engulfs her beating heart into oblivion. Only the number of Missed Calls keeps increasing. Her eyes start itching, “Not again”, she moans softly to herself. Then, without wasting another thought to that, she tries making amends in the mehendi being applied, changing a leaf or curving a flower petal.
After sometime, the sparrow stops flying out of the clump that is now a nest. The sun is about to set, a pink gold hue sprays the sky and reflects on the tree tops. Only for a moment, nature flashes an exotic scene of beauty and completeness. And, then, without another warning, disappears behind a navy sky… then rapidly, shades keep darkening, and as if someone has spilled ink, it’s inky black. For a few seconds, there is nothing- only loss and regret. As if someone is pulling a string of her heart out, she feels a numb pain in her bosom. Just as her eyes start itching again, stars peep out and twinkle a brilliant pallet of red, silver, blue. Her eyes moisten, a quiescent silver but there is a smile on her lips, her eyes smile too.
The door bell rings, there are loud heys, hellos and hugs. There is a loud chatter and a girl of her own age appears in front of her. Both smile at each other. They hug and have tears in their eyes. Just as she is letting go, her best friend whispers into her ear, “It’s a right decision. You will move on”. And she knows, she will.

At Every Step

At every step there is a turn,
Every road has a bend.
Every shrub has a different root,
Every leaf is a different green.
With every night a different moon
Shines against the inky sky,
Each morning brings a different sun
Spraying different reds and golds.
Each season has its own song,
Sometimes chilly, sometimes warm.
Everyday a different hue,
Paints the canvas of life.
Everyday I mould myself,
Discovering, learning, remoulding,
For better or for worse I still tread along,
Changing, at every turn and every bend.

Blasted Normalcy

After a long day at college, I came home thinking of all the assignments I have pending and how much I have to do when I saw the computer. Its times like these I wish I didn’t have a P.C… like hypnotized I went to it and sat myself facing it, switched it on. It had been ages I hadn’t logged into my Yahoo messenger. I did just that, not even a second later a friend who was already online pinged me, and we were chatting away to glory when he mentioned something gave me the “greatest news of the day”- Delhi Blast.
“God! They have been showing that since centuries now… the news channels… don’t they get bored?”
“What’s the news they’re ranting about now… aliens kidnapping cattle, again?” I asked.
“No… haven’t you heard, blasts in Delhi… 20 dead… atleast they say its 20!”
I was horrified! I received the Abhi-Ash wedding news in a much serious way!! The next day it was of course, all over the papers: Blasts in Jaipur, Hyderabad, Ahemdabad, Surat and Delhi. What shocked me more than the news of the blast is the way in which it is told! It’s almost like a routine, bomb blasts in India are. We are so accustomed to hearing things like that, its NORMAL talk when we’re talking about it. That is what bothers me no end! How can we get used to things like that? Adaptability is one thing and downright shameless apathy is another… and I am not sure where our reactions lie between the two.
Its not just bomb blasts… floods, starvation, train accidents, corruption- NOT NORMAL! I think it’s because of the attitude like this that it’s as if nothing is being done. There were articles written all over about The Survival Spirit of Mumbaikars: right after the blasts, people resumed their lives; work, schools, colleges went on like before. It was not much the survival spirits than the hungry stomachs that had to be fed that made us resume our “normal” lives. We need to rethink what is normal… maybe knowing what normal is will help us be aware of our subnormal existence! To change the behaviours, attitudes and thoughts need to be changed… that is entirely in our hands. If we want a change, it should start with ourselves.

I never thought I’d be one of those Desperate Housewives who nag at their husbands without a reason. It was the third month I was at home after Niksy’s birth. It was our decision that we’d keep the baby happy without any compromises, which meant I do all the compromises. I quit my job, which I more often than not loved, by the way. The only places I had been to after the hospital were- the kitchen, the bathroom and the two bedrooms of our apartment. Motherhood was tiring and sometimes frustrating.

Niksy was paid attention to and showered with baby talk and talcum powder but her mother went ignored and without a darb of kajal or gloss or anything to do with beautification. It was obvious I wasn’t used to it, more obvious that I didn’t plan on to make a habit of it. Ashok had taken a week off before the delivery everyone went ga-ga over him being so sweet and thoughtful. But only I had to go through 20 hours of labour pain and hair loss that followed it.

Unwittingly, I frequented into long stupors broken only by Niku’s cries of hunger- for food, love, play... She was so lucky, I thought, she would wail away to glory without even a drop of tear in her eyes and the whole house came to see what she needed, at any given point in the day or night! I wasn’t jealous of Niku… I was, well, tired… In my defense, I was cranky, sore and fat and my hormones were hell bent on practicing a weird kind of ballet all the time! Whenever I spoke to Ashok about it, which was almost always at night on the bed with his laptop on and the clicking sounds which made me wince and eventually cry softly so that he wouldn’t hear. It was all terribly pathetic!

That was the end of my sob story I promised myself as I dropped Niku off at my mother’s place. I changed into an extremely pretty off-shoulder kurti that I had for years, it was the only thing that saved me from looking fat. I wore some lipstick, some eye liner and a soft eye shade, too dressy to go to the mall, but hey, try having 20 hours of labour and a husband who never bothers to look at you after that! I was about to check if retail therapy really helps, I am not proud of it, but that’s what happened.

So, I enter the mall, looking all high maintenance and chic for the first time in a year!! I went straight to the biggest store with the most expensive clothes, one of the places about which I always promised myself to check one-day which surprisingly never came. I picked up their designer basket and was going through their Autumn collection when I heard someone call my name softly right behind me. As I turned I came face to face with one of my worse nightmares- Rajiv! He was standing right there smiling at me, crows feet forming at the corner of his eyes but still extremely handsome. I opened my mouth to say something but there wasn’t any sound coming from there.

As if watching a bioscope, I went through all those moments with him standing there in that big store at the mall closest to my house- the day we first met, his poems, his letters all those beautiful words that formed ever so beautifully at his mouth… all those promises, his stars and the moons. It was infact the picture of his last letter that snapped me out of the bioscope… I don’t remember all of it, but some words still cling on to my brain and though they are meaningless now, they sometimes pain.

Sorry, leaving you, forgive me, forget the promises, you should have the stars and the moon at your feet, I’m not worthy of you, going without saying a Good Bye because I don’t think I can make it with your blackberry eyes brimming with questions boring into me.

I found myself at a coffee place inside the mall. Rajiv was talking about his new book, still in the manuscript stage. How passionate he was about his writing! He hadn’t changed apart from the branded clothes that he now wore, he still looked like a wandering nomad with a caravan of only dreams and words, those are his words of course, don’t expect me to be half as lyrical as he was! Without realizing I blurted out, “I have a daughter!” sounding like those 4 year olds that fight over who has a better toy. I tried damage control in a softer tone, “We named her Niharika and she is indeed a bundle of joy!”.

“That’s such wonderful news! I always knew you’d be a great mother… Niharika is lucky indeed.”

“Thank you! It means a lot to me, especially when it’s you from whom it’s coming”, he looked a little embarrassed after the first seconds of satisfaction, I aimed for damage control again, “What’s happening with you on personal front?”, trying hard to sound like an interested friend.

“You know the loner me… still searching! There was only once that I felt that it is the thing but I blew it up. But it was a long time ago.”, I felt the water drain in me. “You look stunning, as ever!”, he added in the most delicious tone ever.
I looked away and tried to sound nonchalant, “Really? Ashok tells me I have put on weight; I am trying to get back in shape. You know how it is, motherhood, gets you!”

“No, not you, I remember how much you wanted to have children!”

It was years and years ago, that we had talked about having our first child. He had promised that he’d be there inside the labour room holding my hand. He had also promised he would understand the mood swings and morning sickness and still love me. He promised to write poems for me even if my feet were swollen. He had promised he’d send roses from his office even when my belly was the size of a large pumpkin. I knew he would have done all of it. I believed all of it… the holding hands in the delivery room, sending roses, the poems… all of it! Apart from all the other differences, this was the biggest in Ashok and Rajiv. Rajiv promised things that are fit in a fairy tale and Ashok never promised anything!

That’s what it was- Rajiv’s promises never realized and Ashok did things without promising them. This wasn’t a fairy tale that seventeen year old lives in… this was the real world where real things mattered and the present is more important than the past! And if I could turn back time, I would want to like my engineer husband says, shift+delete all those moments with Rajiv because they weren’t meant to happen.

Why was I letting this man bother me, who really meant nothing to me!! I interrupted his speech on how wonderful motherhood had made me (I laughed inwardly when I thought of all those times when I was so jealous of my baby!) and told him, “Rajiv, it was such a pleasure meeting you again but I am so sorry! I promised to pick Niksy up in time and I really don’t feel like breaking that one. Have a great life ahead! Do come over sometime.”

While at Mom’s I hugged and kissed Niku so much she got irritated and started crying. I cleaned the house and made Ashok’s favorite dinner. I put Niku to sleep and had a shower, wore his favorite dress and some makeup. When Ashok came home, he was all impressed and pleased. In bed, the laptop went on again thankfully Niksy started yelling her lungs out at the very moment. While cajoling her to stop I pushed the envelope a little further.

“Ashok, I met Rajiv today at the mall. He has become a writer, you rem— “

“Rajiv? What?”, he sounded so bewildered I turned around to see the look on his face. The laptop lay abandoned aside, that, right then was the most triumphant moment in my entire life. I must have grinned too much which made Ashok take on a more subtle tone, “You mean that Rajiv? What did he say?”

“He told me I looked stunning as ever and that motherhood brought a new colour to my personality… but I couldn’t talk to him too much, because I had to pick Niksy up. I have invited him over too. It’s been a long time, no?”

“Invite? Really? Umm… why? I mean, we… I don’t know him that well. He wasn’t even in the gang, you know…”, Ashok sounded so dumb when he made excuses! I went up to him and kissed him for a long time. It had the desired effect, the stuttering and stammering stopped and the laptop was switched off.

Ashok had to leave for Delhi the very next morning. In the afternoon somebody was at the door. I opened the door and there it was- a cutely decorated wicker basket with fresh lilies, my favorite and strawberries! Where the hell he got strawberries in that season, I wondered. I didn’t even have to read the little letter in it to know who it was from. Told you, Ashok did things without promising them!